


The Rules of Romance

by Nny



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Fluff, M/M, Romance Cover Models
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 20:37:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17567561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: Bucky hadn’t exactly wanted to be a model, it wasn’t like it was his dream. Sure, he’d been a little lost when he’d been discharged from the army on medical grounds - hadn’t known what the hell a one-armed snipercoulddo - but he’d been thinking more along the lines of finding a gym that needed personal trainers, maybe.





	The Rules of Romance

**Author's Note:**

> This was all [Theapatheticmoose](http://theapatheticmoose.tumblr.com/)'s idea, I just ran with it, thanks for letting me play! Thanks so much to Lissadiane and Flawedamythyst for delightful commentary and helpful notes.

Clint’s skin was warm against Bucky’s back, and he relaxed back into his arms, resting his head against Clint’s shoulder and tilting his head up a little to where Clint was leaning down into him. He was surrounded, grateful for the warmth of him even under the heat of the lights. 

“Okay, Bucky, you’re beautiful. Clint, this is for the _silhouette_ line not the goddamn hearts and flowers, can we have a little more smolder?” 

Bucky looked up to meet Clint’s eyes, the corner of his mouth quirking up. 

“Getting a little sappy there, sweetcheeks?” 

“What c’n I say,” Clint said, his voice low and warm and amused, “you’re just too damn adorable, baby.” 

Bucky disguised the tiny shiver that went through him with an elbow to Clint’s abs, which the guy didn’t react to ‘cos his stomach muscles were hard as rock, the bastard. 

“Okay,” Bucky said, pulling on his practiced sexy smirk, tilting his head back a little so his hair fell away from the curve of his neck. “Think about Sal’s. Garlic panini leavin’ pools of butter on the plate. The smell of oregano and tomato rich in the air. Thick mozzarella tryin’ to drip all over your hand as you lift it to your mouth - “

“Jesus,” Clint breathed, his eyes half-closing and his tongue sliding out to slick across his lower lip. 

“ _Perfect_ ,” the photographer yelped, the shutter clicking frantically. 

*

Bucky hadn’t exactly wanted to be a model, it wasn’t like it was his dream. Sure, he’d been a little lost when he’d been discharged from the army on medical grounds - hadn’t known what the hell a one-armed sniper _could_ do - but he’d been thinking more along the lines of finding a gym that needed personal trainers, maybe. 

He sure as hell hadn’t been expecting that he’d turn to glare at a woman who’d been blatantly, almost _aggressively_ eyeing him up, only to have her beam at him. 

“That’s _wonderful_ ,” she said, “the smoulder is just - can you do soulful, for me?” 

Bucky frowned at her, his jaw clenching with the effort not to be rude to her, not in Mama Barnes’ own backyard. 

“ _Yes_ ,” she breathed. 

“Look, lady -” he said, edging backwards, looking around for a security guard or a handy exit or _Steve_. “I don’t know what your deal is -” 

“I’d like to offer you a job,” she said, suddenly all business. “Have you ever considered modelling?” 

Bucky squinted at her. “You’re kidding me, right? I don’t know if you’ve noticed -” he lifted what remained of his left arm, the sleeve on that side tied into a clumsy knot. 

“Oh that’s fine,” she said, “we’ll just shoot your right side.” She considered the expression on his face for a moment. “And I should add, the medical cover really is excellent.” 

That was what swung it for him, in the end. Not just for him - he bartered a deal for Stevie as his manager/PA, whatever the hell job title he wanted, ‘cos paying for the medication for his heart and lungs and ear infections and everything else that was going, seemed like, was the better part of why Bucky was so desperate for work in the first place. 

So he did a couple catalogues, a magazine shoot or two - even went up on the catwalk for some hip designer who only seemed interested in the bit of him that was missing. It was okay work, a little too sporadic to feel exactly comfortable, but the physio bills got paid and Steve got through another winter, and that was just about all he needed. 

*

Bucky first ran into Clint on a shoot in a scuzzy warehouse, the kinda place that was all old and industrial, where he kept his arm wrapped around himself for fear of cutting himself and having to get that one lopped off, as well. He’d left Steve at home for this one, ‘cos the guy was a freaking magnet for germs, and he was standing by the food table sipping on a bottle of water he’d made sure to flip open himself when a tall blond guy with amazing shoulders swooped on the pizza with a cry of delight. 

“Seriously?” he said, “you’re actually gonna eat that?” 

The blond looked up, cheeks bulging around the half slice he’d already shoved in his mouth. He gave Bucky a quick up and down look, but it seemed a little less clinical than Bucky was used to, a little more appreciative. 

“You already laid claim?” he asked, when he’d gulped down what was in his mouth, and then gave a delighted kinda laugh at whatever expression was on Bucky’s face. “Free food is free food. Don’t knock it.” 

“That attitude’s gonna buy you a whole lot of food poisoning.” 

“Nah,” the guy said, slapping the flat belly that his shirt was clinging to lovingly, “this thing’s cast iron.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky said, a little distracted with a long look of his own. “Looks like it.” The guy smirked a little and Bucky scowled at him darkly, awkward and uncomfortable at being caught out. 

“Man, you’re cute as hell when you’re mad,” he said, his voice kinda wondering, and Bucky tripped him into the pizza with extreme prejudice. 

His name was Clint Barton, Steve told him later, when Bucky’d been soundly yelled at and docked the cost of the designer shirt. Apparently he worked part time to support himself ‘cos he was a professional _archer_ , of all the fuckin’ things, and the occasional ren faire gig didn’t do much to pay the bills. Steve said he’d heard he was a helluva shot, and Bucky kinda failed at not hating the guy for it. 

It was kinda inevitable that they’d end up working together, now and again, ‘cos New York was a huge place but the modelling world was kinda small, especially when you ended up specialising. See, Steve found it hilarious, and said it was all about Bucky’s hair, but he wound up doing a hell of a lot of work for an up and coming romance publisher. Apparently ‘boredom’ and ‘barely controlled fury’ translated on his face to something that could easily be mistaken for lovelorn, or yearning, or whatever particular flavour of bullshit they were asking him to peddle that day. 

It ain’t that Bucky had anything against romance. Sure, the covers he was shooting weren’t exactly the particular colour and flavour that he was lookin’ for, but all of the pictures he’d ever had taken were _some_ kinda shade of a lie. So he gritted his teeth to emphasise the line of his jaw, and wore the requisite kilts - there were a lot of kilts, somehow; he kinda got used to enjoying the breeze - and contorted his body whatever way was needed to make sure no one could see his left arm. 

The first time he saw Clint there, the guy was on set. Bucky remembered him being hot, sure, but it hadn’t hit home the way it did now, and he lurked in the shadows behind the camera for longer than he could find any kind of excuse for. 

The book, he assumed, was some kinda Dirty Dancing knock-off; Clint was wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of tight pants that made every movement a little obscene. His partner had red hair and a beautiful pout, and Jesus, the way they looked all pressed up together was gonna sell thousands of copies, regardless of the content of the book. Clint was clowning around while they set up the lights, trying and failing to get his partner to laugh, but the moment the camera was on him - 

Bucky would’ve admitted the guy was hot. Reluctantly, sure, and maybe under threat of torture, but he wasn’t gonna deny that there was something about him that drew the eye. Like this, though? Intense and unsmilling and every inch of him held perfect and poised? He was stunning in the truest sense, like Bucky had just been knocked backwards a step and still needed to catch his breath. He stood there, motionless, through three sets of poses, feet fixed to the goddamned floor. It wasn’t until Clint looked up and caught his eye, smiled slow and hot and dropped him a wink, that Bucky gathered enough of himself back together to turn on his heel and get the fuck out of there. 

Man, he _hated_ that guy. 

*

“Hey Bucky. Bucky! _Buck_!” 

He slowed his pace, then stopped altogether when he saw the state Steve was in, his nostrils flaring with every breath like they always did when he was refusing to admit that every single one was a struggle. Bucky fumbled in his pocket and pulled out Steve’s spare inhaler, tossing it into Steve’s hands and refusing to let him speak until he could open his mouth without wheezing. As soon as Steve’s breathing had returned to as close to normal as it ever got, Bucky started up the stairs again, his pace a hell of a lot more relaxed. 

“Okay,” Steve said, climbing the stairs behind him, leaning a little more heavily on the handrail than Bucky’d like - he made a mental note to loom at the superintendent some more, make sure to keep his mind on getting the elevator fixed. “So there’s a potential - contract coming up; five book series minimum, bonus for - committing to that many with the - potential to renegotiate at book three if - if it’s selling well.” Bucky knelt down on the landing to fiddle with his bootlaces, giving Steve the opportunity to catch his breath. 

“Sounds good,” he said, sitting back on his heels and pushing his hair back out of his face. “You put my name forward?” 

Steve pulled a face, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms across his chest. 

“What kinda manager you take more for, Buck? Course I put your name forward, but there’s good and bad news about that.”

One floor up a door slammed, the slow shambling footsteps of Mrs Gunderson coming along the landing. Bucky rolled his eyes - he’d’ve insisted they finish this conversation inside their apartment if he was confident Steve could handle the stairs. 

“Okay. Hit me with it.” 

“Good news is, they’re interested in you already - and by they I mean the _silhouette_ line.” 

Bucky mimed his incomprehension pretty eloquently, and Steve let out an annoyed wheeze. “The _silhouette line_ , Buck. I _know_ you’ve heard me talk about it. _Romancing his valet_ , the Marwood and Carstairs trilogy, that one about the cowboys -” 

Mrs Gunderson huffed at them, like their presence on the landing was inconveniencing her beyond the telling of it, and went out of her way to shuffle by without brushing past either one of them. 

“Oh,” said Bucky, loudly. “The _queer_ books.” 

Mrs Gunderson hissed in a breath between her false teeth and looked up at them from where she’d started down the stairs. 

“That word ain’t polite,” she said, fixing them with an ice-cold glare, “and I oughtta wash your mouth out.” 

“Mrs Gunderson -” Steve started, but his voice was drowned out by Bucky’s.

“Good luck fittin’ the soap in,” he called, “‘cos half the time there’s a _dick_ in there!” 

“ _Jesus_ , Buck,” Steve hissed, but Bucky could tell he was laughing. He got back to his feet and started up the stairs. 

“She deserves it, the homophobic old bat. If she says she’s gonna pray for me one more goddamn time -” 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Steve said, starting up the stairs behind him again. “It’s a damned good deal, you’re one of the front runners, and it’s reliable work.” 

“And the bad news?” Bucky fumbled his keys out of his pocket, walking past the elevator to their peeling front door. He glanced behind him when Steve didn’t answer right away, but from the look on his face it was awkwardness rather than asthma that had him biting his tongue. Bucky shrugged and shoved the door open, walking along the narrow corridor to the kitchen and switching their ancient coffee machine on. 

“The bad news is that they’re also interested in Clint.” 

“Right,” Bucky said, focusing on mugs, coffee grounds, filters; focusing on keeping his head turned away from Steve. “So we’re up against each other?” 

“Well I guess you could put it like that,” Steve said. “They’re _queer_ books, Buck.” 

Oh. 

_Fuck._

*

They had a sort of low key rivalry, was the thing. It’d probably started when Bucky’d shoved Clint backwards over a table of pizza, but it’d continued with passive-aggressive pet-names, and constant teasing, and Clint’s unending references to the fact that Bucky was short. 

He called him adorable, and sweetheart, and peanut, and doll. One time Bucky overheard Clint referring to him, drunk off free magazine-launch wine, as his ‘pocket-sized prince’, while Natasha - the red-head - glared at him over Clint’s head. She did that a lot; Bucky figured they were probably together, figured it made sense that she was a little threatened by the way they had to get so close on shoots. 

Bucky retaliated, pretty much, with more of the same - called Clint beanpole, and Treebeard, and made him laugh for half an hour the time he called him Groot. Wouldn’t answer to anything else for the rest of the day, in fact, and kept catching Bucky’s eyes and grinning while the photographer had a melt down between them. 

They had to spend time together for the cover shoots, once they both got hired, and for the promotional material, but there were moments in between; a soft drink commercial, a leisure centre promo, a stupidly awkward shoot for underwear that forced Bucky into such uncomfortable positions to hide his arm that he felt like he pulled something in his back. 

“It’s bullshit,” Clint said, as he helped him upright after that one, his voice filled with heated anger that seemed to leak into something warming, settled low in Bucky’s gut. “Where the fuck is the inclusivity, huh? Makes me wanna refuse to wear anything but the clunky-ass BTE aids they gave me at the hospital, make a fuckin’ point.” 

Bucky’s eyes flicked to Clint’s ears, startled to notice the unobtrusive flesh-coloured aids tucked in there. 

“It’s not so bad,” Bucky said, straightening with a wince, and Clint grinned and offered him a back massage, wiggling his long fingers in a way that made Bucky have to refuse, awkward and hurriedly, and find someplace to pull on a protective layer of pants. 

Mostly he tried not to think about that. 

*

The first cover has them glaring at each other, jaws clenched, just a little too close; that one had been easy to pose for, at the time. 

The second cover, their foreheads are pressed together, so close, and Bucky’s looking down at Clint’s lips. He’d had to - whenever they’d made eye contact Clint had snorted a little, or curled his mouth, or crossed his eyes; by the end of it they just had to be close enough to touch and Bucky was laughing, hard enough that one time he sprayed spit into Clint’s mouth. Clint had grinned, wide and dumb, and insisted that this meant they’d practically made out, they were basically dating now, tough shit, he didn’t make the rules. Something warm and gently aching had moved into Bucky’s chest, that day, and he was still working on getting the damned thing out. 

The third was the one with the half-naked snuggling; it was easy, and it was difficult, and it was fucking impossible to bear all at once. 

*

Bucky gets fans. 

Bucky honestly hadn’t anticipated fans, and it’s actually kind of cool at first - he gets stopped in the street, two women with beaming smiles telling him they love his work and asking if they can take a selfie. He laughs and obliges and tells Steve all about it over ramen that night, teasing gently about how he’s going big time now, how he’s gonna leave all the ‘little people’ behind. It ends with Steve trying to smother Bucky with a throw pillow, Bucky laughing too hard to throw him off. 

At _first_ , it’s cool. Until he gets cornered on set by one of the women from the publishing company, her eyes narrowed behind black-framed glasses while she eyes him thoughtfully. 

“RomCon is coming up,” she says, like those words are supposed to mean anything to him. “We’ll need you there for the whole weekend of course. You’ll receive a percentage of all photoshoots, naturally, but signings remain paid as standard. Twin room, fifty bucks per diem -”

Bucky switched off, thought about the sandwich he was gonna put together from the array of salad vegetables they seemed to think were all that models ate. He tuned back in when she crossed her arms over her chest, tapping her foot impatiently. 

“Sure,” he said, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder at where Steve was flirting awkwardly with one of the security guards. “Now say the whole thing again to him.” 

RomCon, turned out, was the biggest romance novel convention in New York State. Seventeen publishers, five book launches, innumerable agents and editors offering advice and scouting for talent. And Bucky, apparently, offering fake cover shoots and signing the covers of a book he didn’t even write. Sure, he’d done worst things for money, but he was struggling to remember what - especially when he got to the damned hotel room and found that not only did ‘twin room’ apparently indicate a king size plus a rickety camp bed stowed in a corner, but that he was going to be sharing with _Clint_. 

Clint was already in residence when he showed up, his bag stowed on the camp bed - which was buckling ominously - and the whole length of him sprawled out diagonally across the king size bed. He was wearing sweatpants and a soft-looking purple shirt, and his left sock had a hole in the big toe. His hair was rumpled and his face was pillow-creased, and Bucky wasn’t sure how to deal with the particular flavour of feelings that gave him. 

“That thing’s a goddamn death trap,” Clint said, slow and sleepy, waving a hand at the camp bed. “I swear it’s carnivorous, it tried to eat my damned hand.” 

“So what,” Bucky said, his voice carrying a sharp edge, “I’m supposed to share with you?” 

“You do whatever you want.” Clint shrugged, his shirt riding up a little. “It’s all one to me, you’re basically the size of a hobbit.” 

Bucky scowled darkly and went to put his sports bag on the camp bed, listening to the ominous groans and clankings as it settled and trying to decide which option was worse. He’d go share with Steve, only he’d already helped the guy carry his bag into the glorified broom closet that he’d been issued, and there was no way Bucky’s _perfectly normal_ physique was gonna fit in there with him. 

“Fuck it,” he said, half under his breath, and shrugged off his sweatshirt and unbuckled his belt, tossing his jeans onto the camp bed as soon as he’d removed them and watching in glum resignation as the bed let out a miserable groan and collapsed to the floor. 

“I can sleep on the floor,” Clint offered; when Bucky turned to face him it was to find him sitting up against the headboard, a pillow clutched to his chest. He looked all kinds of soft and touchable in the lamplight, and Bucky had to clench his fist against the idiot warmth in his stomach. “If it’d make you more comfortable -” 

“It’s fine,” he said, and watched as Clint scooted across the bed, taking the side closer to the bathroom and leaving Bucky the right side of the bed so he could still grab anything off the nightstand without having to awkwardly reach across. It was a small thing, but it felt significant, somehow. 

He grabbed his washbag and his phone and went into the bathroom to clean his teeth and panic-text Steve, who just sent a string of laughing faces back. Bucky lingered in there as long as he could manage it, and when he went back into the room Clint was tucked up under the blankets and facing him, asleep or doing a convincing impression of it. Bucky watched his face for a moment, the escaped light from the bathroom highlighting the stubbled line of his jaw, his pale eyelashes, the gentle curve to his lips. Then he shut off the light and clambered inelegantly into the bed, curling himself into a blanket burrito and feeling like just about the biggest idiot on earth.

*

There was a moment - fumbling and confused in the half-waking darkness - where Bucky felt, for a moment, like he was exactly where he wanted to be, warm and surrounded and blissed out after the paleolithic ages it’d taken him to get to sleep. Then there was a sharp noise behind him, a fumbling movement, a soft apology in the dark of the room. He half turned over, reaching for - something - but turned back to the wall when the bathroom light clicked on, grumbling and tucking himself back into the blankets, not quite able to recapture the warmth. 

*

When Bucky woke, Clint was already gone, a cup of coffee steaming gently on the nightstand and the garment bag that’d been hanging on the back of the bathroom door gaping open. Bucky would’ve worried - a garment bag kinda implied a suit, and he was just wearing his best-fitting jeans and a gray Henley - if he didn’t know that Clint always carried his outfits in garment bags, just in case he spilled another coffee into his luggage. 

Bucky made himself as presentable as he could, making a mental note to tie his hair back just as soon as he found Steve. The agenda had his first scheduled activity as a signing at 11, followed by photo ops with fans ominously just listed as ‘starting at 1pm’. It couldn’t last longer than a couple hours, right? He scrubbed his hand across his face, already kinda exhausted, and disgruntled from something he couldn’t quite remember, some dumb dream that woke him in the middle of the night. 

The breakfast laid out was better than anything they got on shoots - a hell of a lot more fat and carbs than they usually let him near. He loaded up his plate with bacon and eggs, pancakes, syrup, toast, and came close to stabbing Steve with his fork when he sat down and tried to snag a slice. 

Steve got up the second time Bucky tossed his hair outta his eyes, finger-combing his hair into a ponytail and tying it back with the band he always kept around his wrist, all the while telling him what was gonna be expected of him over the course of the con, where to find Steve at all times, and reminding him that he was supposed to be daydream material so he had to try to _smile_. Bucky grimaced at him, syrup and mashed-up pancakes oozing between his teeth, and Steve snapped a photo and posted it to Bucky’s Instagram, if the cascade of notification beeps from Bucky’s pocket were any indication.

Bucky took a deep breath, cleared away his plate, and braced himself to meet the throng. 

It was actually a lot different than he was expecting. More men, for a start, which had probably been an asshole assumption to make. There was even one guy dressed as Bucky from the cover of _Helpless for Highlanders_ , artistic mud-smears and all, and Bucky grabbed him for a selfie and sent it straight to Steve - and then, after a moment of consideration, Clint. Wasn’t sure what he was hoping for in response. 

There was a ton of pink, a bustling crowd of happy people, a collection of gift bags the contents of which Bucky was never gonna use. It was cheerful chaos, and Bucky lost himself in it, half an eye out for a blond head towering above everyone else. He didn’t catch a glimpse of Clint until they were sat down the table from each other at the book signing, separated by the author of their books; Clint caught his eye for no more than a second, then went pink and looked determinedly away. 

It was - fine, mostly. Bucky’s hand started cramping around the halfway mark; he got a ton of inappropriate comments and at least three indecent proposals; he got just about every possible reaction to the absence of his arm. After one fan had to be escorted away by a security guard after some _seriously_ invasive questions, Clint started calling over answers to the endless questions about what had happened to him. Bucky started laughing around about ‘rogue Roomba’, and finished the signing session in a much better mood than he ever could’ve hoped. 

The photo ops? They were another story. 

It started off fine; Bucky had to smile while various fans snuggled up close to him, had to recreate the covers from various books. One adorable stuttering ginger guy asked him to pose with him like the cover of the second book, foreheads together and all, and honestly Bucky was just grateful that this time he didn’t have to stand on a box. 

It was when they got to the paired ops that things got a little uncomfortable. Fans that’d paid for photos with both Clint _and_ him. He couldn’t help being stupidly aware of little things - the touch of Clint’s arm against his when they both had their arms around a fan; the little smile on his face when they were asked to do something dumb; the way he joked around with the nervous ones, made ‘em feel at ease. Bucky was trying desperately to recapture the annoyance that Clint had once brought out of him, but he was pretty sure it’d all been melted away by the warmth in his chest that Bucky was hesitant to name. He gritted his teeth and got through the photos, ignored the proximity, forced on a smile. And, in the end, it wasn’t even him that broke. 

“Oh god, I’m so excited!” said the last fan of the day, her cheeks bright red and her glasses flashing in the light. “I can’t believe I’m really here!” 

Bucky grinned at her, wider than he had so far, grateful that after this he could head back to their room for a bit and recover from all the _people_. Clint’s eyes dropped to Bucky’s mouth for a second, and Bucky’s heart hiccuped in his chest. 

“I wanted,” the fan said, fumbling in her pocket, “I thought if you wouldn’t mind -” She pulled out a silver ring, a plain band with a masculine cut, and Bucky laughed out loud. 

“Wow,” he said, “I mean, it’s a little forward, but -” 

“Eddie and Tyler are just so _perfect_ for each other,” she gushed, pushing the ring into Bucky’s hand. “A proposal picture would just be the most incredible thing.” 

Bucky took the ring between his fingers and stepped in close to Clint, looking up into his dark blue eyes and biting his lower lip. “What d’you say, Groot, baby?” he said, making his voice all low and smooth. “Wanna get on your knees for me?” 

Clint paled and then flushed, his forehead furrowed and his jaw tight. 

“Yeah,” he said, “I can’t do this,” and he turned on his heel and walked away, pushing through the curtain they were using as a backdrop and leaving Bucky gaping. 

“Shit,” he said, and beckoned over one of the publisher’s gophers; she was already soothing the fan and booking a time in for tomorrow before Bucky had even moved away. 

The area behind the curtain was full of cables and bags and dismantled stalls, and Bucky picked a direction at random, figuring that sooner or later he could just follow the clattering and find Clint in a heap of detritus. He almost jumped out of his skin when Natasha appeared silently from around a corner, stopping directly in front of him and wearing her habitual glare. 

“What did you do?” she asked, and he mimed his incomprehension. 

“Look, I need to find Clint,” he said, and made to push past her, but her small hand on his chest was deceptively strong. 

“If you are going to hurt him -” 

He looked down at her, his veins filled with golden fizzing, like cheap magazine launch champagne. 

“I wasn’t aware I could,” he said, and maybe the idiot smile he could feel spreading across his face tipped her off; she stepped aside and jerked her head over her shoulder, towards a dark corner filled with drop cloths and lighting equipment and, after a bit of searching, Clint. 

“I’m sorry,” Clint mumbled, not looking up from his miserable sprawl. Bucky crouched down and Clint hunched up tighter, wrapping his long arms around his knees. 

“Sorry for what?” Bucky asked, dropping to his knees and sitting back on his heels, picking at a threadbare patch on the knee of his jeans. He wasn’t sure he could keep from reaching out if his fingers weren’t occupied. 

“Making you uncomfortable,” Clint said. “I’m a model, I’m no kinda actor - fuck, I’m not even that. I’m an archer, that’s it; I could hit a bullseye behind me on a windy day, but there’s no way I’m gonna be able to kneel at your feet and pretend like I don’t give a shit.” 

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Bucky said, reaching out careful fingers to brush against the stubbled line of Clint’s jaw. “I wouldn’t _want_ you to.” Clint looked up at him, his eyes dark, and Bucky leaned in all careful, closing the gap between them the way he’d wanted to a million times. He pressed a gentle kiss to Clint’s lips, curved his mouth against the smile there, opened his mouth just enough that he could run his tongue along Clint’s lower lip and catch the tip of Clint’s tongue. Clint looked dazed when Bucky pulled away, pupils wide and cheeks flushed. 

“I guess this means we’re basically dating now,” Bucky said, fake-casual, and couldn’t help mirroring Clint’s widening grin. 

“Guess so,” Clint said, “I don’t make the rules,” and pushed his fingers into Bucky’s hair when Bucky leaned in for another kiss. 


End file.
